The Conan Chronology

by J. R. Karlsson

  'What make you of that one?'Conan asked.

  'I never saw her like. A trim craft, though, and apt for the raider's life, although she lacks cargo space for a merchantman.'

  'And she could not hold enough men for a true man-o'-war,' Conan said. 'I've heard many things of the Stygians, but I never heard of a Stygian pirate, save he was a ruined noble and an exile. What sort of Stygian sets to sea in such a craft?'

  'It is a good question,' Wulfrede said, 'but perhaps we had best avoid the answer.''

  Once ashore, the shipmaster guided them to a merchant's warehouse where beads and trinkets for the coastal trade were offered for sale. They arranged for several chests to be transferred to the ship, then went in search of diversion.

  'A seaman's tavern is not just a place to feed and get drunk. I intend to speak with my fellow captains and question them about the waters to the south. It has been more than four years since I last cruised those waters, and I want to learn what may have changed.'

  'How long shall we be in port?' Ulfilo asked.

  'It is too late today to get much done,' said Wulfrede. 'Tomorrow I must see to provisioning the ship with food and water. Also I must get the goods you just bought stored away, and I need to lay in new rope and sailcloth. We will need more hands to sail in the south, so I must see about hiring some. Let us say, three days from now.'

  'Excellent,' Ulfilo said. 'I shall arrange for rooms for the three of us at a good inn.'

  'An inn with decent bath facilities,' Malia said fervently, 'and a laundress!'

  Wulfrede chuckled. 'Enjoy it while you can, my lady. Where we go, you will get a bath when it rains and where cloth rots too fast to worry about washing it.'

  'All the more reason to indulge myself now.' They were walking down a narrow alley between chandler's and cooper's shops. Abruptly, Malia stopped with a shocked indrawing of breath.

  'What is it?' said Ulfilo, alarmed.

  The woman could say nothing, but she pointed. Something long and glistening was gliding sinuously over the cobbles toward them. It lazily raised a head the size of a small winecask and regarded them with unblinking black eyes as a forked tongue flicked in and out of its lipless mouth.

  'Mitra!' Ulfilo cried. 'Can that be a serpent?'

  'The great serpent of the southern jungles!' Springald said. 'marvelous!'

  Ulfilo began to draw his sword but Wulfrede gripped his wrist. 'Must I always be preventing you from getting us killed? Many animals are sacred in Stygia, and all serpents are the children of Set. These giants are the holiest of all.'

  'We must not kill it even if it attacks?' Ulfilo said.

  'You needn't worry,' Conan told him. 'Look, you see that great bulge?' About four feet behind the head an obscenely huge lump swelled and distorted the thing's elongated body. 'It has already eaten something or someone today. It goes now to lie up in its lair and digest its meal. That can takes weeks. These creatures eat but seldom.'

  'How did it get to this island?' Malia asked, having regained her voice.

  'They are at home in the water as on the land,' Conan told her. 'The Styx and other great rivers are alive with them.'

  They watched warily as the creature slid past them, its coils

  working endlessly until a tiny, pointed tip wriggled its way across the cobbles at their feet.

  'How big do they get?' Malia asked in a strangled voice.

  'The Stygians claim that they keep growing as long as they live,' said Springald. 'That one by its length must be about a hundred years old.'

  'I have seen them much larger, along the Zarkheba,' Conan said. 'That one was large enough to swallow a man, but down there they grow big enough to swallow horses and buffalo.'

  The three Aquilonians looked as if they suspected exaggeration on Conan's part, but having seen the monster in the street, they did not question his veracity. After a brief search the three found a suitable inn and left Conan and the shipmaster to find a hostelery to their own liking. They located just such an establishment near the water. The building was set upon high pilings, to stay above the waters of the annual Styx floods. Soon the two had large stone tankards of foamy brown ale set before them. Wulfrede took a long pull at his and smacked his lips.

  'Ah, they are arrogant swine and vicious wizards, but the Stygians are the only people outside the northlands who know how to make decent ale.'

  'They do that,' Conan agreed. 'They claim to be the first folk to cultivate grain, and that their corn god taught them to brew ale. If so, he's the only worthwhile god they ever had.' They ordered dinner and settled down to some serious talk.

  'Think you,' began Wulfrede, 'that our Aquilonian friends intend to laze away here in Khemi, awaiting the hour of our setting out to sea?''

  'The thought has occurred to me,' Conan said. 'This brother wrote them a letter from Khemi, and it seems unlikely that they would pass up an opportunity to make some inquiries about him. If he truly outfitted an expedition here, there should be word of the man, what sort of ship he took south, bearing what goods, what sort of men he hired.'

  'Aye. Our employers are being cursed closemouthed again.'

  II

  'There is nothing to stop us from asking questions of our own,' Conan said.

  ' 'Nor to keep us from maintaining a watch upon those three.''

  'Spy upon them?' Conan said.

  'Why not? These are not our kinsmen. They clearly do not trust us, so wherefore should we trust them? They could get us killed with their distrust so it is only right that we should see what they are up to. I must see to the ship. Can you watch them?'

  'Aye,' Conan said. 'It's no more than they deserve. I, too, dislike being treated like a simpleton who is not to be trusted with too much information.'

  'So say I.' They clanked their tankards together and drank deep.

  As the evening wore on, the two conversed with a number of the mariners who came to the tavern to eat or drink. Only a very few were Stygians. Most were sailors of other nations, most of them passing through, some of them using the Tortoise as a permanent or semi-permanent base. When they asked after Marandos, all they got were blank looks.

  'These men are in and out of this port,' Conan said. 'We must ask among the chandlers and such.'

  'The barkeep has been here for years,' Wulfrede said. 'Let's ask him.' So they called the man to their table.

  'An Aquilonian noble?' he said. 'About a year ago such a man came to the Tortoise, but I know not from what vessel. He was here a day or two, but no more, then I saw nothing more of him. But he outfitted no ship here on the Tortoise, that I can tell you.'

  'What is that black ship that lies anchored nearby?' Conan asked.

  'There is no such ship,' said the barkeep in flat tones.

  'We take your meaning,' Wulfrede said. 'Thank you for your aid.' When the man returned to the bar Wulfrede said: 'Think you the man lied in his letter? Might he just be some

  ruined drunkard who wanted his family to think he was prosperous?'

  Conan shook his head. 'But he said in his letter that he wanted them to come after him.'

  'So they say. Have you read this letter?'

  'No, nor even seen it. But might the man have outfitted a ship somewhere else?'

  'Where?' Wulfrede asked.

  'In Khemi proper, rather than on the Tortoise.'

  'A foreigner do such a thing in Khemi? How could that be?

  'How can there be a beautiful black pirate craft of Stygian make? How can such a ship be anchored not three hundred paces away and men deny its very existence?'

  To that, the Van shipmaster had no answer.

  IV

  Black Sails

  It was a hot, sultry night. The all-pervading scent of the great river lay over the island like a pall. Conan the Cimmerian stood within an arcade formed by the overhanging second stories of two buildings that faced one another across a narrow street. He leaned with arms folded, back against a wall, motionless as a statue. When need warranted, he had th
e patience of a hunter, patience he had learned among the crags of his native Cimmeria and amid the forested lowlands of the Pictish Wilderness.

  The building he faced was the inn where the three Aquilonians had taken up lodging. During the day there was no difficulty keeping track of them. The island was small and simply by walking among its few, narrow streets he could detect any movement on their part. At night, a closer watch was called for. There had been no action the previous night. The three had remained within, but around midnight a man had arrived, a Stygian wearing a long black coat. He had stayed less than an hour and had left. During that time a light had glimmered

  through a window of one of the rooms Conan knew they had engaged. It was extinguished as soon as the Stygian had left. Conan had followed the man to the water, where he had entered a long black boat manned by four hulking, silent oarsman. Satisfied that he would learn no more that night, he had returned to his own lodgings.

  The next day he had made some preparations. He had purchased a hooded cloak of black silk, such as was common among folk of all classes here. Silk was amazingly cheap in wealthy Stygia. He knew that he might need to do some stealthy tracking, so he stored away his sword and retained only his dirk, sheathed at his broad leather belt. Thus accoutred and armed, he could move about the blackened streets silently and unseen.

  He moved even deeper into shadow when he saw the door of the inn open. Three figures emerged; one tall and bulky, one' short and stout, one petite and slender. All three wore cloaks much like his own. For a few minutes they stood without the door unmoving. Conan knew the reason for this. Ulfilo, with his soldier's caution, was waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness outside. Again, Conan felt a grudging respect. He did not like Ulfilo, but he had to admit that the man was a true warrior.

  The three set out and Conan fell in behind them. He stalked well back, for a close following was unnecessary. The island was tiny, and the barbarian's eyes were as keen as a cat's in the dim light. If nothing else, he could hear them clearly. Both men wore boots. Conan himself was barefoot for the sake of silence. He rarely went unshod in cities, but the Stygians were cleanly to the point of fanaticism, and required that even the resident foreigners of the Tortoise scrub their streets daily.

  The three went the same way as the Stygian he had followed the night before. When they reached the river, the black boat was waiting for them. The four oarsmen were there, but the Stygian was nowhere in sight.

  Conan stood within an alleyway as the three boarded the boat. While they did that, he removed his cloak and rolled it into a

  light cylinder. The fine silk compressed well and he slipped it into a small, tubular sheath of crocodile's gut. The transparent sheath was waterproof. He secured its end and slung it around his neck by a silken cord. Dressed only in his short sailor's breeches he watched as the boat pulled away from the wharf.

  When it was well out on the water, Conan ran lightly to the wharf and lowered himself into the water, carefully, so as not to make a splash. The warm waters of the Styx closed around him as he set out after the boat. Keeping his limbs below the water, Conan began a frog-kicking breast stroke that he knew he could keep up for hours.

  With his wet black hair plastered against his skull, any watcher who might have seen him could easily have mistaken him for a swimming seal. The boat in which the three Aquilonians rode was not the only craft upon the water that night. There were numerous boats out fishing for the night-feeding fish. These boats bore torches and fire baskets to attract the fish which were caught with nets, hooks on lines, or trained diving birds. The flames dotting the black waters made an eerily beautiful sight. And the Cimmerian was all too aware that he and the fish were not the only swimmers in the water. The great river serpents were out there somewhere, and nearby he heard a thrashing that meant a crocodile had caught something and was savaging it to death.

  He ignored the perils of the river and continued to follow the boat. The stolid rowers were not racing across the water, so he had no difficulty in keeping up. They were pulling toward the southern bank of the river, where the temples and obelisks of Khemi bulked in deeper blackness against the dark sky.

  As it turned out, the swim was not a great one. The boat drew up to a set of steps that rose from the water and led to the dusky streets above. The boatmen tied up to a great bronze ring set into the river wall and helped the three passengers onto the steps. At the top of the stair, he could just descry a cloaked figure who resembled the Stygian he had seen the night before.

  Steps rose from the river every fifty paces or so, and Conan made for the nearest. He rose dripping, like a creature of the river, and sprang up the steps. Just below the crest, he shook his cloak from its sheath, unfurled it with a snap of his wrist, and swirled it over his shoulders, the silk billowing into a great circle before settling over his brawny frame. He pulled the hood over his head and went up the remaining steps to the street. Thus attired, he would pass all but the closest inspection.

  Swiftly, he walked toward the other stair and arrived at its crest just in time to see a tiny, unmistakable form disappear into a narrow street. With a grim smile, he followed.

  The four ahead of him led him a lengthy trek through the night time streets of Khemi. Like many such streets in the greater Stygian cities, these provided a study in contrasts not to be found in the younger, less sophisticated lands of the north and west. Most of the slaves and tradesmen had left, but that did not mean that the streets lacked life. Everywhere were the shaven-headed acolytes of the various temples, their faces skeletal from the prolonged fasting and other austerities required of them. In stark contrast to these were the voluptuous harlots who paraded the open squares naked except for towering, elaborate headdresses in which candles burned to better illuminate their beauty. Masked men from the desert wearing black and white striped robes led their camels toward the markets that would open in the morning, while certain wizened men dressed in ragged brown sacking sold drugs forbidden in every land save Stygia. Mountebanks put trained animals through their paces. Strange, incomprehensible music wafted from doorways that gave access to dim cellars from which came sounds of laughter and screams of terror.

  As Stygia's principal commercial port, Khemi was not as priest-ridden as the great ceremonial centres such as Luxur, but that was only by the standards of that nighted land. It seemed to Conan that every fifth building he passed was a temple dedicated to one or more of the many strange gods of Stygia, and they were not yet near the temple district.

  He paused as he saw the four ahead of him stop. Their Stygian

  guide gestured toward a doorway set in the black wall of a three-story building. The three filed in before him, and the Stygian went after them. Conan quickly stepped up to the doorway, just in time to hear it shut, along with the unmistakable sound of bolts being shot home. He stepped back and examined the building. Like most in the city except for the temples, it had a flat façade, and it abutted the buildings to each side. Its façade was heavily carved with scenes from the history, mythology, and ceremonies of Stygia. Over its doorway, slightly recessed from the other carvings, was an oval panel carved with a strange sigil: a wavy-pronged trident enclosed within a crescent moon. If it signified one of the gods of Stygia, it was one of which he had no knowledge.

  There were no windows on the ground floor, but each of the two upper floors had three windows. Even as the Cimmerian scanned the building, he saw a glow from within a third-floor window. He looked the street up and down carefully. Two men walked away from him, half-drunk by the look of their walk. They rounded a corner and the street was deserted. Conan ran to the building and began to climb its façade like a squirrel. To one raised in the Cimmerian highlands, where boys climbed the sheer crags for sport and to rob nests of eggs and feather down, the deeply carven wall was as good as a ladder. Stygian gods and goddesses, many of them beast-headed, provided him ample grip for fingers and toes. It was, he reflected, the only favour the gods of Stygia had ever done fo
r him.

  Every few seconds he paused and carefully scanned the street below. As long as he kept motionless, he knew he was all but invisible against the blackness of the wall. In motion, he knew that a passer-by, glancing idly upward, might espy him moving against the background of starry sky.

  When he reached the window, he moved slowly, an inch at a time. He heard voices from within, and he longed to know what was being discussed, but he knew better than to ruin his chances through impatience. He did not try to pull himself over the sill, but rather he climbed up alongside the window until he was like

  a man standing beside a door, except that, instead of a floor, he had a half-inch of stone beneath his toes. Slowly, he leaned sideways until he could see into the room and hear the voices.

  But before he saw or heard anything clearly he was struck by a strong, distinctive odour. He smelled smoke, and it was not the common smoke from firewood, or oily torches or waxen tapers. It was the sharp, unmistakable smoke generated by burning the stems, petals, and seeds of the black lotus. It was the most powerful of the many drugs used by sorcerers to generate the mystic visions they required to aid their spells and help them contact powers beyond the human plane. There was no fresh smoke in the air. This was the residue left by past burnings. To leave sufficient effluvia for a man to smell it outside the building, he knew that the stuff must have been used within, in great quantity, for generations. Black lotus was a tool restricted to the most powerful sorcerers. Lesser men were quickly driven mad by it. The very implications made his scalp crawl.

  Within, the three Aquilonians were seated at heavy, carven chairs of dark wood. Facing them across a table was a Stygian, but not the one who had guided them there. He was a near-giant, taller even than Ulfilo and built massively through the shoulders and chest. His long black hair was neatly dressed and confined by a golden band, in the centre of which gleamed a golden oval embossed with the trident-and-moon design. His beard was trimmed to a point, his eyes gleaming blackly above high cheekbones. Conan knew from his look that this was a nobleman of the highest caste.